


Wanna make your motor run

by cordelia_gray



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Birthday, Blow Jobs, Car Sex, Curtain Fic, F/M, First Time, Five Times, M/M, Road Trip, Schmoop, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-13
Updated: 2011-04-13
Packaged: 2017-10-18 01:27:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/183443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cordelia_gray/pseuds/cordelia_gray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four times Dean got road head, and one time he gave it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wanna make your motor run

**Author's Note:**

  * For [De_Nugis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/De_Nugis/gifts).



> For [](http://de-nugis.livejournal.com/profile)[**de_nugis**](http://de-nugis.livejournal.com/) , a somewhat belated but nonetheless heartfelt birthday gift. It's schmoop, baby - hope you like it :)

Dean’s missed this: the feeling of being cocooned in the bubble of the Impala’s headlights, some nameless stretch of America rolling by outside. Inside, the low rumble of his baby’s engine, classic rock on the radio, Sam snoring softly in the shotgun seat.

The world as it should be.

He thinks maybe they should take on a few more hunts now. Easy ones, like this poltergeist they’re going to take care of in New Mexico.

There was a time when the very last thing he ever wanted was to even think about hunting, when he’d hide the newspapers from Sam and let Bobby’s calls go straight to voicemail.

But he’s starting to feel like maybe things are different now; there’s enough solid ground beneath his feet - and Sam’s - they could get back to hunting sometimes. There’s a lot about this job he loves, despite all the crap.

The late-night DJ’s voice comes on the radio; news, weather, some creaky joke about a pop star’s third stint in rehab, and then it’s back to music. “Paradise by the Dashboard Light,” no less. Dean grins. Hey, he’s a simple guy. He glances over at Sam, ready to make a joke, but Sam’s out for the count.

Dean lets him sleep, but now road head is all he can think about. In theory, of course, it should be awesome. Anything combining sex with his baby sounds amazing: find a way to add in pie, and that’s Dean’s idea of Heaven right there, screw reliving your greatest hits for all eternity.

The problem is, it’s almost always better in theory than it is in practice.

He’d been sixteen, the first time anyone had given him a blowjob in the car. Dad had lent him the Impala to take Jenny Ferguson on a date (after a perfunctory lecture on safe sex, of course). Jenny was a little older than Dean, and possibly the hottest thing he’d ever seen. She was a cheerleader, stacked, legs up to _there,_ but she was also smart and funny and listened to Metallica. Her older brothers were into classic cars in a big way, and the look on her face when she saw the Impala in all her gleaming black glory was definitely rewarding.

After the movie (it was probably Goldeneye, but he doesn’t really remember, because Jenny kept trying to stick her tongue in his ear), she suggested they go for a drive and then find somewhere to “park”. Dean was all over that plan, and Jenny was all over him again the minute they got in the car.

Dean really had no objection to that.

The problem was that after making out all through the movie, and the immanent prospect of getting to third base, Dean was practically beside himself with horniness. Jenny had decided that she wanted to see how the car ran at highway speed before they stopped, and Dean was torn between wanting to show off his baby and getting Jenny’s hand on his dick, like right fucking now.

Turned out he didn’t have to choose, because she had her hand down his pants before they got to the highway, and her Maybelline lip gloss was hitting the head of his cock by the time the needle hit 60.

And… that was all it took, apparently.

Through shear luck, he managed to avoid getting come in her eye or anything really awful like that, and he was able to charm her sufficiently with apologies that she agreed to go park by the lake anyway. She had a good time, Dean’s pretty certain, but he was so focussed on making it up to her that the rest of the night kind of passed in a blur.

Dad had found a hunt in some other state by the end of that weekend, so Dean never found out if there would have been a second date.

 **2.**

The first time he got road head from a guy, things went a lot better, at least on a technical level.

Dean was 24, and he was alone. Sam was off having his hunt-free, Dean-free, college-boy life. Dean was due to meet up with Dad in Minnesota in ten days, and he had a couple of possible hunts to check out on the way, but mostly it was just Dean and the radio and the Interstates. He kept trying to convince himself that he loved the freedom, but mostly he just tried to fill the silence.

Dean had started picking up hitchhikers, once he was hunting on his own. Just to give himself someone to talk to. Dad would’ve killed him if he’d known, but Dad wasn’t there, and Dean needed the company. Somewhere east of Salt Lake City he saw a young man by the side of the road – tall, broad shoulders, narrow waist, head of shaggy brown hair. Dean’s stomach did a complicated flip, and he pulled over.

“Nice car,” said the kid, grinning.

His name was Jason, he was nineteen, and he was fleeing a strict Mormon upbringing. He was on his way to New York City to be a dancer. He was beautiful, and he kind of broke Dean’s heart.

Dean just didn’t know what to do with Jason’s enthusiasm, his commitment to his dreams, the frank appreciation he showed for Dean’s physical presence. Not that Dean had never had a guy look at him that way, not that he’d never taken the odd offer of a blowjob in a truck stop men’s room; but Jason didn’t act like it was shameful, or dirty; he looked at Dean like he was the best thing he’d seen all day.

Jason stuck with him as long as he was heading east. He even offered to take a shift at the wheel, but there was no way Dean was letting non-Winchester hands on his car. Dad would kill him.

They stopped at a roadside bar & grill for dinner, and Dean gave Jason some pool lessons, standing behind him and guiding his bony wrists, while Jason settled back against Dean in a way that made it pretty clear that he was interested, and so (apparently) was Dean.

Later, on the road, Jason said, “So – who is he?”

“Who?” asked Dean.

“The guy you’re wishing was in this seat instead of me.” Jason smiled wistfully.

“Nobody,” said Dean, after a moment. “There’s nobody.”

Jason shrugged. “Whatever. You don’t want to talk about it, that’s up to you. But whoever he is, I bet he won’t do this for you,” and suddenly his hand was right there, warm and strong, sliding up Dean’s thigh to his crotch, stroking him through the denim.

“Jesus, warn a guy!”

“Want me to stop?” Jason asked, with a predatory smile.

“Fuck no!” was the only reasonable answer to that question.

It was clearly not Jason’s first time at this, and there was something about the practiced way he worked Dean with hand, lips, tongue, that made Dean a little queasy even as he could feel the orgasm building deep in his groin. But he pushed the feeling down and wound the fingers of his free hand through Jason’s tangled hair, trying to pretend he wasn’t picturing it a little darker, a little curlier, that the name that kept trying to break from his mouth wasn’t “Sam,” because that would be wrong, in so many ways.

Dean was steering with one hand, tugging at Jason’s hair with the other, muttering, “fuck, so good, so fuckin’ good, I’m gonna,” and then he was, Jason swallowing as he came. Dean slid his hand down so he could feel the boy’s throat working around his cock, and goddamn, that was hot.

“You didn’t have to, you know,” he said to Jason later, and Jason flashed him a look; something dark and complicated. “I know,” he said. “I wanted to.”

When Dean hit Iowa and had to turn north, Jason said, “Thanks for the ride, man, that was awesome!” Dean wanted to tell him to be careful, but settled for “Take care of yourself, man.”

He spent the rest of the drive not thinking about Sam.

He did that a lot those days.

Dean saw Jason on TV once, years later, in a hospital waiting room, when Sam was getting his wrist set because he’d gotten his Sasquatch-sized ass handed to him by a zombie chick. The nurses were watching “So You Think You Can Learn How to Dance Like A Millionaire” or whatever it’s called. There was Jason, tall and strong and beautiful, living his dream. The nurses were all rooting for him to win.

So was Dean, but he couldn’t help a flash of feeling the unfairness of it. Jason got his dream, and that was great, but Sam’d had dreams once, had set off on his own to make them happen. And now, all he had was Dean.

Dean hoped maybe that would be enough.

 **3.**

Strangely enough, the first time he got road head from Sam was not long after that.

Dean was 27. He and Sam had just taken out a water wraith that had been preying on locals for years, in a small lake somewhere in the Ozarks. She’d fought like a demon at the end, slamming Dean into rocks and trees while he tried to distract her long enough for Sam to get the silver knife into her back.

Afterward, high on adrenalin and victory, Dean was grinning like a fool. He and Sam made a hell of a team; those evil sons of bitches didn’t stand a chance. But Sam kept touching him, patting down arms & legs & ribs, looking for damage. “Dude! I’m fine! Quit it!” Dean said, laughing, though Sam quitting it was the last thing he wanted; Sam touching him was like getting high, like some kind of not-quite-legal heroin, and Dean never wanted him to stop.

Eventually he got them both into the car, whooping & hollering – they were in the middle of Bugfuck, Nowhere – who’s to hear? Sam’s wandering hands found a cut on Dean’s thigh, nothing serious, the jeans had taken the brunt of it, but Sam said “Dean! You’re bleeding!” and slid his hand into the torn jeans to check.

“It’s nothing, Sammy, just a scratch, I’m fine, I’m fine!”

Dean laughed, trying to push Sam’s hand away, not really paying attention to the mountain road, the drop-off, all his senses focussed on Sam. Which is how it always is, anyway, Sam’s just too damn big for Dean to see anything else.

Somehow, in all the wrestling, Sam’s hand brushed Dean’s crotch. Dean felt it like fire and ice, Sam’s hand like a brand and a rush of guilt like lake water down his spine. Sam let his hand, big and warm, settle over Dean’s erection, squeezing once through the denim like he was trying to make sure, to confirm that Dean was getting a major hard-on from his little brother’s perfectly innocent touch.

The world crashed to a blinding halt, Dean’s deepest secrets suddenly revealed. He felt defenceless, cracked open like a clamshell, delicate inner parts exposed to the sharp claws of the predator. Sam was looking at him, and Dean couldn’t read his expression, he had no idea if Sam was going to punch him or leave him or what was going to happen next.

“Pull over,” Sam said, and Dean started babbling, “Sorry, man, it doesn’t mean anything, just please -”. “Pull over, Dean! Now!” Sam barked at him, and fuck, that was kind of hot too. Dean pulled into a lay-by, gravel spraying, and the car was hardly still before Sam was wrenching open his door and stomping around to Dean’s side. He had Dean’s door open and was hauling Dean bodily out of the car before Dean had a chance to process, and he still thought he was going to get punched in the face.

But Sam wasn’t punching him, he was kissing him, giant paws wrapped around Dean’s head, long lean body crowding Dean up against the side of the car. It took Dean a second to get with the program, and then he was kissing back, messy and frantic and urgent. He tried to get his hands up, to get them on Sam, to maybe slow them down a little, but Sam just kind of growled at him, and shoved him harder against the car.

Dean gave up at that point, because really, here was everything he’d wanted but thought he’d never have, just handed to him. Not like he much choice but to go along with the ride anyway, the force of nature his baby brother had become trying to climb inside his mouth, urgent and possessive and utterly, utterly perfect.

And then Sam’s hands were fumbling at his belt, tearing clumsily at the buckle, the zipper, and holy fuck, Sam just dropped to his knees right fucking there in the roadside gravel, and he pulled Dean’s cock from his jeans and tried to swallow it whole.

Dean had never felt more invincible than he did at that exact moment, two tons of Detroit steel at his back and two hundred pounds of Kansas muscle in front of him, the land falling away behind Sam’s head to the valley below, blue mountains beyond, and a hawk circling the updraft just about eye level. _Screw DiCaprio, I’m the fuckin’ king of the world_ was pretty much his last conscious thought before higher brain function shut down.

If that memory isn't on the menu when (if) Dean finally gets to Heaven to stay, he’s damn well demanding a refund.

 **4.**

The first time he gave Sam road head is also an awesome memory, though for slightly different reasons. It’s one of the great trials of Dean’s life that Sam won’t let him tell the story at parties. _("It’s not appropriate dinner conversation!" "Don’t get your panties in a bunch, I’ll leave out the part where we’re brothers." "Jesus, Dean!")_

He was 28 years old. He and Sam were in suburbia, researching a hunt. Dean was pretty sure it wasn’t their kind of thing, though: it was a case of high school pranks gone wrong, nothing for them, but they had to check it out, regardless.

So there they were in this wasteland, no violence on the horizon, no hunt, no nightlife to speak of either. And frankly, life was just too short to waste on this kind of crap.

Or Dean’s was, anyway: he had nine months left, and he meant to make the most of them.

Sam was driving, on the way back to the motel from a pointless afternoon of research. He looked impossibly hot in his black G-man suit, and Dean just didn’t think he could wait much longer. It was mid-afternoon in small-town America; traffic was light; Dean was bored. There was really only one thing to do.

“God, that was boring,” he said, earning himself an eyeroll from his brother. “Spent the whole time thinkin’ about blowing you under the table in the interview room.” Dean had timed it perfectly: Sam did a classic spit-take of his iced tea. He tried to cover it with a cough, but Dean knew better.

Sam glanced over at him. “Is that why you spent the whole time molesting the end of your pencil with your tongue?”

Dean grinned, and licked his lips, and chalked up another mental point to himself when Sam’s eyes stuck helplessly on his mouth instead of the road. “Yeah,” he drawled slowly. “Just kept thinking about your dick in my mouth, Sammy, fuckin’ love the way you taste, man.”

“Jesus, Dean, will you quit that? I’m trying to drive here!” Sam reached a hand down to adjust himself. Dean knocked the hand away and replaced it with his own, finding Sam’s half-hard cock and squeezing it hard through his dress pants. It twitched and hardened, and Dean grinned.

“What’re you doing?” Sam said, groaning. “Just – just hold on, ok? We’re nearly there, I can’t - fuck!” as Dean gave an extra-hard squeeze. “Don’t want to wait for the motel, Sam, want to blow you right here in the car, give the soccer moms an eyeful.”

“Fuck!” Sam said, again. Dean smiled. “C’mon, Sam, let me blow you. You know you want it.” And he slid down in the seat, leaning over Sam’s crotch. He leant in until his mouth was less than an inch above Sam’s dick, and blew, gently, warm air ghosting through the fabric of the dress pants.

“Nnnggh,” was Sam’s less-than-articulate response.

Dean decided to take that as a yes, particularly when a hand came off the wheel and wrapped itself around the back of his neck, pulling him closer. Dean fumbled awkwardly for a moment with belt and zipper, but in a moment he had Sam in hand, firm and hard and long. Sam’s hips were moving now, almost unconsciously, little rhythmic movements like he wanted to thrust forward but was holding himself barely in check.

Dean licked Sam’s cock, one long swipe of his tongue from base to tip, sucking off a drop of salty fluid and licking his lips. Sam groaned above him, tightening his grip on the back of Dean’s neck. Dean grasped the base of Sam’s cock firmly in one hand, and sucked the tip into his mouth.

He didn’t notice the slight bump, and at first thought Sam’s fingers scrabbling in his hair were encouragement. But Sam was saying, “Stop, stop, Dean, stop,” and Dean pulled off his cock and looked up in confusion, directly into the angry eyes of what appeared to be an actual, honest-to-God soccer mom.

Dean looked at Sam, who was blushing a shade of red that man was never meant to be, and then forward, at the back of a minivan, inches away from the front bumper of the Impala.

Dean sat up slowly, and met Soccer Mom’s gaze as she angrily demanded to know just what the hell they thought they were doing. Sam was burying his head in his hands, like a god-damn ostrich. Dean had all the proof he needed right there that Sam’s freaky mental powers were gone, because if he could have made the ground open up and swallow them at that moment, they’d be underground already.

Dean could see the exact moment Soccer Mom realized just what was going on, and he had to think fast, before she started yelling or called the cops, so he said the very first thing that cam into his head.

“I’m very sorry, ma’am,” he said, with his best shit-eating grin. “It’s my fault, I got carried away. Sam here just agreed to marry me, I couldn’t help myself.”

She looked at them, mouth open in mid-sentence, train of thought derailed.

“Is there much damage?” Dean asked innocently. “We’ll pay for it, of course, but please don’t call the cops. He could lose his job!”

“Maybe you should have thought of that BEFORE you started giving him a blow-job in broad daylight in the middle of Main Street!” Soccer Mom replied.

“We’re _really sorry,”_ Sam said, finally speaking up, and Dean could sense that he was unleashing the full power of the puppy dog-eyes on her. She softened visibly. Those babies were irresistible: Dean should know.

“I don’t think there’s any actual damage,” she said, looking at the back of her minivan. “And I’m late to pick the kids up, I don’t want the hassle.”

She glared at them fiercely. “Just – take it indoors, OK?” And she stalked off back to her car.

Dean couldn’t stop laughing for at least fifteen minutes, and Sam’s exasperation just made it funnier. After a moment, though, Sam started laughing too, and they were both wiping tears away by the time they got back to the motel.

Dean made a big show of looking for damage on the Impala, but couldn’t actually find any – they couldn’t have been going more than five miles an hour when they hit. That didn’t stop him from telling Sam he had to wash the car now to make up for it, to which Sam replied that he was an innocent party on all of this, and if there was any damage it was all Dean’s fault. Dean responded very maturely by spraying Sam with the hose they were using to wash the car, which led to Sam in a wet-tshirt, which led to them going back into the motel room where Sam did eventually get his promised blowjob, on the safely stationary if slightly stale-smelling motel bed.

Later, after the day was over, they’d lined up the next hunt, eaten some crappy pizza, and gone to bed, Dean pretended to be asleep. It was always worth doing that to catch Sam saying the chick-flicky things he’d never say if he thought Dean was awake, and this time was no exception.

“I’d marry you if I could, asshole,” Sam whispered into his shoulder in the neon-lit darkness, The memory kept Dean warm for a long time after that, after things went to Hell. Well, not so much “things,” as him and Sam, really.

It took a long time for them to get back on track after that, and when they finally did, Sam had to ruin it again by getting his left femur shattered by a friggin' rock troll in the Cascades. Trust Sam to get himself almost-killed by a something out of a Tolkien story.

Dean put his foot down after that, and they settled. Long enough for Sam’s leg to heal, he said, but by the time that happened, they were practically respectable. They run a bar now, Smith & Wesson’s, in Corvallis. Dean restores classic cars for fun and profit on the side. Sam helps Bobby run the hunter network. They have a life. They volunteer for Big Brothers.

 **5.**

When they got a call from Bobby (retired from active hunting, but still the information hub) about someone having poltergeist troubles in Roswell, New Mexico, Dean couldn’t pass it up. “Roswell, dude!” he said to Sam. Sam grinned. “You still hoping for some real aliens?”

The poltergeist was almost disappointingly easy, though Dean did get banged up a little. Mrs. Garcia, a fortyish MILF with two sons, husband lost to a workplace accident, was thrilled and grateful, and seemed not averse to showing her gratitude to Dean personally. Sam looked a little pinched, but seemed to be on the verge of offering to go do some research to give Dean a little time alone with the hot widow.

Dean was having none of that. It was his birthday the next day, and even if he was the only remembered that fact (it certainly wasn’t the birthdate on the ID he carried now), there was absolutely no one he wanted to spend it with other than Sam.

Dean took first shift driving, but switched off with Sam after about three hundred miles. His wrist hurt from where the poltergeist had smashed him into a wall, and he was tired. “Not as young as I used to be,” he grumbled to Sam. “Ok, old man,” Sam said. “Let me drive.”

Dean settled back in the seat and fell asleep, Beatles playing softly over the iPod jack Sam had refused to travel without.

He woke up sometime later, in the dark. He struggled with confused memories of the dream he’d wakened from, which seemed to involve Sam being naked. Disappointingly, Sam wasn’t naked in real life, but he was big and warm, and Dean kissed him sleepily, trying to get his hands under the ridiculous layers of shirts he always wore.

Sam kissed him back, but then he said, “C’mon, it’s your turn to drive, we’re nearly there.”

“Where?” mumbled Dean, confused. They couldn’t be anywhere near Oregon yet. He didn’t recognize the road they were on, but it wasn’t the highway, two-lane blacktop stretching away into the night.

“Just drive,” Sam said. “It’s a surprise.”

“I hate surprises.”

“I know. Just drive. Trust me?” And there was a flash of dimpled smile, and Dean put the car in gear and drove, because he never could say no to that look. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Sam kneaded the stiffness from his leg and settled in to doze against the car door.

Eventually, they passed a little town, lights sharp and sudden in the unaccustomed darkness, road signs told Dean where they must be heading. The sky was just beginning to lighten, the frosty winter pre-dawn silvering the skyline. “Hey Sam,” he said, “we’re nearly there.”

Sam woke up and looked at him, sleepy and tousled. Dean grinned, he couldn’t help it. Sam grinned back, wide and open and sunny, and Dean felt a rush of wild affection, had to get a grip before he said something unpardonably sappy.

Something of it must have shown in his face, because Sam’s grin softened, and he leaned across the seat to kiss Dean. “Dude! Morning breath!” Dean said, raising a hand to Sam’s face, to push him away, or maybe just to touch, he wasn’t quite sure.

“Guess I’ll just have to take my morning breath where its wanted, then,” Sam said, and he slid down to Dean’s lap, looking back up with that wicked little smile on his face. He turned his head, nuzzling at Dean’s crotch, breathing warm air through the worn denim of his jeans. Dean groaned, and buried a hand in Sam’s hair, not too tight, just enough to hold on.

Sam worked a hand in between Dean’s lap and his mouth, started working on his belt buckle and zipper. Jimi Hendrix came on the radio, urgent beat driving Dean on, and his world narrowed to his eyes on the grey ribbon of asphalt, his hand on the wheel, Sam’s mouth on his cock, hot and wet and slippery, tongue and lips and just the barest hint of teeth, and Sam working him with his hands and making these little breathy moans that drive Dean fuckin’ wild, Jesus _Christ,_ that’s good. And the car came around the corner and into an open space, land rising and falling all around like tumbled sheets, and Dean slammed on the brake and grabbed Sam’s face with both hands and came with a groan, spasm after spasm, as Sam swallowed and licked and eventually pulled away.

Dean caught his lips in a long kiss, licking the taste of himself from Sam’s mouth, shoving him against the back of the seat and fumbling for his zipper. He found Sam’s cock, hard as iron, hot as a brand, and gripped it tight. Sam closed his eyes, pushed up into Dean’s hand. “That’s it,” Dean whispered. “Come on, Sammy, come for me, just like that…” Jacked him hard and fast and just this side of too-rough, and Sam was spilling hot fluid across his hand in moments. They both fell back against the car seat, breathless and spent.

“Happy Birthday, Dean.” Sam said, voice low and raspy and unfairly smug.

“So far, so good,” Dean said, ‘cause yeah, that was kind of spectacular.

But Sam’s wasn't done, the sneaky bastard. “I talked to Joe at the bar, Dean. He’s got everything under control there, we don’t need to be back for at least a week. I thought we could, you know, take a few days off…”

“You mean, like a vacation?” Dean laughed. “I dunno, dude, really? What would we do, go to Disneyland?”

Sam’s watched him, eyes wide and earnest. “Whatever you want, Dean, it’s your birthday. We can practically see Vegas from here, I thought you might want to go win some money, catch a show, whatever. Or we could be in Mexico in a day or two, get some sun, drink margaritas on the beach. We need to test-drive these new passports, anyway. Or – they have cabins here, it’s the off-season, we could just hole up for a couple of days…”

And Dean wants all of that, and more, he really does.

But first – first, he’s going to find some diner napkins and clean them both up, and then he’s going to dig out a ratty old blanket from the back, one that’s been in the car since before he was born, most likely.And Sam's old hoodie, and that stupid hat he made for Sam when he was quitting smoking and Joe at the bar convinced him to take up knitting, for something to do with his hands.

And they’re going to sit bundled up on the hood of the Impala, passing a Thermos of almost-warm coffee spiked with a little something from Dean’s flask, and they’re going to watch the sun rise over the Grand Canyon.

And somewhere in the middle of it all, Dean will think that turning 40 might be the best thing that ever happened to him.

***************************************************


End file.
